


According to Plan

by notthekindwithhalos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Crime, Drama, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:03:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7161590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthekindwithhalos/pseuds/notthekindwithhalos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s a gun.” He said stupidly. Of course it was a gun. That much was obvious. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that it was a gun being thrust in his face.</p><p>“Just empty the safe, the register, and throw a couple packets of cigarettes in there.” The other man said, gesturing to the worn duffel bag thrown on the counter. “And maybe you won’t make this a murder case.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This does contain descriptions of a panic attack, so if that's gonna upset anyone: a shameless plug for my other fics, none of which contain panic attacks. Or maybe go find another story to read. It's your life. 
> 
> This was based off two separate prompts I saw on Tumblr ages ago that I was thinking about recently, and I can't for the life of me find them again. So props to those people who thought of them, if I find them, I'll credit. But also a shameless plug for my Tumblr, feel free to follow me :D
> 
> As always, all mistakes are my own.

“That’s a gun.” He said stupidly. Of course it was a gun. That much was obvious. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that it was a gun being thrust in his face.

“Just empty the safe, the register, and throw a couple packets of cigarettes in there.” The other man said, gesturing to the worn duffel bag thrown on the counter. “And maybe you won’t make this a murder case.”

 Sam Winchester had been working at the petrol station for nearly eight months. He refused to call it his job, as far as he was concerned it was a way to make money until his artwork took off. The moment he thought of it as his job was the moment he would be giving up on his art. It was only _a_ job, not _his_ job. Temporary. Filling in the time until he could live off his sketches. Not that his family cared for the distinction. John Winchester had told him quite simply: _you walk, that’s fine. Just don’t expect me to pay for any of this goddamned fantasy of your's._ Dean had been more supportive. He never really got what it was that drove Sam, but he would pretend to be interested, and he drove Sam to the petrol station at all hours for the night shifts.

It was grim work. Sitting behind a counter all night doing next to nothing was perhaps the most tedious way to pass the time, but the pay wasn’t half bad, and his boss let him draw or read during his shifts. For the most part he worked alone, covering the graveyard shift between the evening staff leaving, and the morning staff arriving. People rarely came in, and if they did they never caused trouble. Just the occasional driver topping up the fuel for a long distance drive, or the insomniacs just popping to the station for milk or sugar or whatever essential item they could not wait until the morning to purchase. He knew a few of them by sight, but they rarely talked to him. This was a surreptitious silence, allowing only a guilty whisper to disturb the night.

That was the first feeling he had got that something was wrong. There had only been one car in the parking lot, a quiet man currently browsing the magazines, when the van had pulled up on the opposite side of the forecourt. It was parked in the shadow of an old oak tree, and he couldn’t make out the plates on the cameras. It sat there for a good ten minutes without anyone getting out.

An ill feeling settled into his stomach, and he tried to brush it off. Maybe the driver was lost, and had just pulled over to check a map. Maybe the driver was tired, and was taking a nap. Maybe the driver… there were hundreds of reasons a van might park in a petrol station forecourt, and there was no need to get worked up over it. It would probably leave in a minute.

If only.

The door chimed as the owner of the van walked in. Sam slid his sketchbook to the side; he had been working on a set of images on commission featuring birds. It was for a poster for a band’s new album. They had only requested “something, like, with birds on it” which was frustrating, even if he had more artistic leeway. Flock of birds flew across the page, feathers blown downwind by the powerful beat of wings. One dominated the page, a crow with a smaller white dove in its talons. It lacked subtlety, but then so did their music.

The other man wore a dark hoodie, obscuring his face. It seemed unusual, but it was nearing November, and there was a slight chill to the air. At least that’s what Sam was telling himself. He gripped the side of the counter, steadying his balance, and called out.

“Hi, is everything… can I help you?” He was sure his voice had wobbled a bit, and he trailed off, uncertain.

The man almost snapped to attention, staring at Sam, his gaze nearly boring a hole through Sam, and straight out the back wall. His eyes were steel, both in colour and expression, and Sam fought the urge to not shiver.

He was only a teeny bit intimidated by this stranger.

The other man said nothing, and Sam wondered if he had heard him.

“Hi, sorry… are you okay?”

Still nothing.

The guy browsing magazines briefly looked up before returning to his search. Sam almost wished the magazine guy would say something, just to break the tension.

Hoodie guy glanced around, and Sam thought he could see the outline of something under his jacket.

He made up his mind. Hoodie suddenly stalked up to the counter. Stalked was the right word, the way he moved was like a predator, a lion, and suddenly Sam was the gazelle at the water hole. He threw the duffel bag onto the counter, and reached under his jacket.

Sam knew what was coming next. He’d known it, subconsciously at least, since the van had pulled up in the forecourt. Perhaps even before then.

A gun was jammed in his face, and Sam stared down the barrel at death.

“That’s a gun.” He said stupidly. Of course it was a gun. That much was obvious. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that it was a gun being thrust in his face.

“Just empty the safe, the register, and throw a couple packets of cigarettes in there.” The other man said, gesturing to the worn duffel bag thrown on the counter. “And maybe you won’t make this a murder case.”

Sam wished he could say something, but fear had seized him by the throat, gripped his body, and was now taking it for a joyride.

Then the gun was gone and he could breathe again.

“Don’t be a fucking hero.” He had discarded the hoodie, its purpose spent, and was now pointing the shotgun at magazine guy.

 _Well I can’t call him hoodie guy anymore_ , the thought floated to Sam from somewhere distant. It was like he was watching the scene play out on television. It wasn’t happening to him. It was happening somewhere far, far away, to someone else. His body just sat there, vacant.

Magazine guy was holding his hands, palms out, to the other man.

“Phone.” The word sounded like a gunshot, and Sam had to check for bullet wounds to be sure.

Magazine guy complied, slowly reaching into his pocket, pulling out his mobile, placing it on the floor, and in one smooth movement sliding it across the floor.

“You.” The gun was back. “Hands where I can see them.”

It was like Sam wasn’t in the room. He had about as much of a chance moving his hands as he did tearing the roof off the building.

“Did you hear me?” The gun was waved closer. “Hands. On. The. Fucking. Counter.”

Sam didn’t want to die like this. He hated this job. He didn’t want to die at the petrol station. Who would water his plants if he was dead? Sam knew the plants were the least of his concerns, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Would Dean be able to water them? Dean often forgot to feed himself, he’d never be responsible enough.

“Look, sir, he’s scared, please…” The magazine guy pleaded.

The gun was gone again. Sam could breathe.

“Shut the fuck up. Nobody asked you to talk.” He had a gruff voice, not that deep, but he obviously was being serious. He sounded exactly like the kind of person who would shoot someone.

The gun was back.

“Are you stupid? Hands on the counter. Now!”

Sam managed to flinch at that. His entire field of view was consumed by the barrel, and his body was not responding to him.

“Look, I’ll help you, please just stop. He’s just scared- rightly so- but…” Magazine guy took a tentative step forward.

With all the force of a coiled spring, the gunman pounced. In one smooth motion, he pulled magazine guy towards him. It happened so fast, Sam couldn’t quite piece together the scenes. Off balance the man fell. A sharp crack, he was lying on the floor, blood trickling from his forehead.

It felt like the gun had never left him.

“Money. Into the bag. Please.”

That seemed strange: the gunman asking nicely. Sam wondered how he had been brought up- well behaved or, well, raised to shoot people. If that even was a thing.

“Look, I’m sure this place is insured. They’re not going to miss out on a couple of notes, right? And I’m sure as hell you don’t like this place enough to die for it.”

There it was again. Die. The gun. The air was too thin here, had the altitude suddenly changed? Maybe the air had fled the room, not wanting to get shot at. It seemed less bizarre the more he thought about it.

“Last time.” The safety was flicked off. “Money. Bag. Please.”

Sam tried to draw as much air as possible into his lungs. “I can’t…”

“Not what I was hoping to hear, kid.”

“No…” Sam tried again. “I can’t breathe.”

“What?”

“I can’t breathe.” The air was getting thinner and thinner, and Sam wondered why the other guy was breathing normally.

“Ah, shit.”

“I can’t breathe.” Now he had said it, it was the only thing he could say. White ice shot through his body, as it slowly asphyxiated.

A pause. Then the gun was gone, laid down on the ground.

“Look it’s all okay, I wasn’t really gonna shoot you. It’s more for show. Most people take one look and shut up.” The man held his hands out to Sam, empty, before slowly reaching for something on the counter and nodding towards the magazine guy. “He’s only unconscious, if it makes you feel better.”

“I can’t breathe.” Why was the other man acting so calm?

“Do you get panic attacks often?” He pulled a bottle of water into view, and unscrewed the cap as if he had all the time in the world.

“I can’t breathe?” His face was going numb, and Sam felt his eyes widen, trying to desperately convey any sense of the urgency of the matter to the man.

“Here.” He offered the water to Sam.

“I…?” Sam touched his face, trying to stimulate any kind of sensation.

“Yeah, you can’t breathe, I get it. Look this is fine, okay? You’re not going to die. It’s just a panic attack. You just got to ride it out. Drink.” His tone suggested he wasn’t to be challenged.

Sam took the water, and hesitantly sipped.

“Yeah. That’s good. Drink a bit more.” Sam complied. “Good. It’s gonna be alright, okay? You just need to breathe slowly. See, I’ll do it with you. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.” He demonstrated. “Easy, right?”

Sam nodded, and tried to match his breathing to the other man’s.

“Great, just keep doing that.” He lightly pulled Sam’s hands down. “The numbness will go away in a bit. Just keep breathing.” He pulled Sam onto the floor, so he was seated leaning against the wall with his knees up. “You feeling any better?”

“I can’t…”

“It’s okay. Have another drink. My kid brother, Gabe, always used to get panic attacks. He’d only ever come to me, cause Mike’s scary, and I’m the next oldest, so I’ve got plenty of experience with this. Although you are a lot better looking than he is. Not like that’s saying much though.” He shot a disarming grin at Sam.

Was he... flirting? Sam took another shaky breath, and noticed his lashes were slightly damp. He brushed them onto his sleeve, and hoped the other man hadn’t noticed.

“I dunno if you’ve got any siblings, but I’ve got enough to share. Mike’s the oldest- although he hates being called that, so naturally that’s the only thing we call him. Then me. Then Raph, Gabe, and a series of half siblings you don’t even want to hear about.”

Sam managed to laugh at that. It seemed so surreal, that the gunman would have siblings, and they would fight. It was too normal.

The other man chuckled too, “yeah, and don’t even get me started on their names. Dad had a weird thing about names.”

“What’s yours?”

“Luke- Lucifer. Yeah, yeah, I know, the irony that I’d be holding up petrol stations. It’s kind of a shit name.”

“I like it.” Sam couldn’t believe he was saying it, but he felt kind of giddy and couldn’t stop the words.

“Yeah? Well, you’d be the only one. And you are…” He straightened out Sam’s work shirt. “Sam. Huh.”

Sam would have felt embarrassed at their proximity, but he was focusing too hard on keeping his breaths even.

“Nice.” If Luke noticed anything, he didn’t say. “Must be pretty neat having a normal name. Sam.” He repeated it, as if sipping a glass of wine, each time finding a new flavour. “Bet you could slip into any crowd with that.”

“Yeah. Sucks.”

“Trust me, you’re not missing out on anything.” He stretched, slowly and deliberately, like a cat, displaying each muscle, each sinew. “So what does Sam enjoy doing when he’s not being threatened by evil gun wielding maniacs?”

He swiped the sketchbook off of the counter and began leafing through the drawings.

“Drawing, huh? Hey these are pretty good.” He was looking at the page with the crow.

“Thanks. It’s supposed to be an album cover.”

“Nice. I’d buy it.”

“I dunno. It’s not quite…” Sam gestured.

“I get it. Well, I hope you finish it soon. I’ll look for it when it’s out. Tell everyone I held up the guy who drew it. Claim to fame.” He smiled at Sam again, and it was contagious.

“Claim to fame.” He echoed.

Luke leafed through some of the other drawings for a while, stopping every now and then to compliment his favourites.

“You still breathing?”

“Yeah, thanks.” The pressure on his chest had eased, and now Sam felt drained.

“Good.” A beat. “It wasn’t loaded.”

“What?”

“The gun. It wasn’t loaded. I just want you to know.”

“Oh.” He didn’t really know what to say.

“Its’s just… I’m not a killer. No matter what they say. I want you to know that.”

“Okay.”

Sam didn’t notice when he had fallen asleep, it had been an easy transition, from weary consciousness to sudden slumber. Whether it was the hour, the exhaustion, or the easy company one moment he was awake, the next he was not.

Lucifer most definitely did notice however, as a weight had settled on his shoulder, a messy brown haired weight, which was softly breathing in time to him. The man looked so much younger now, so much more vulnerable. Lucifer didn’t have the heart to wake him.

Time slipped past, and dawn burned away the edges of the night. A single noise broke the illusion of peace. Sirens, heading this way.

_Please drive past, please drive past._

Of course not. That would have been too kind of the universe. How had they caught up to him so fast?

He could make out the reflection of four sirens in the reflection of the fridge. They couldn’t see him from this angle.

“Well, shit.” He muttered, as not to disturb Sam.

Well, shit indeed. This was supposed to be an easy in and out, quick cash grab. Why could things never just go according to plan?


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke slowly, blinking in the lights of an unfamiliar scene. Disorientated, he tried to sit up, only to find a hand on his shoulder pinning him down. The hand was attached to an arm in turn attached to a body, a body belonging to the gunman from earlier. Lucifer.

He had fallen asleep on Luke’s shoulder, against the counter of the petrol station. The memories played back against his eyelids, embarrassment dripped down his body. He quickly brushed a hand against his mouth to make sure he hadn’t drooled on Luke. What was even happening?

“Be quite. Stay down.” The other man’s whisper tickled against his neck, the warmth sudden against the cool night air.

“What’s going on?” He noticed the magazine guy was still lying unconscious, and guessed he couldn’t have been sleeping long.

“Cops outside. They must have followed me. I don’t get it…” Luke trailed off, uncertain.

“How could they know you were here? Our security cameras are a closed system.” The lights cast shadows into the shop, alternating blue red, blue red.

“They must have been onto me for a while now.” Luke bit his lip, and Sam noticed it had been well chewed already. Not that he was intentionally staring at Luke’s lips now. It just looked like an old habit of Luke’s. “But how…?”

“Why would they be following you?” The fear was back, the survival instinct. There was something more here Sam didn’t know, and he felt like he had bitten off more than he could chew.

“Not now. It’s kind of a long story.” Luke peered through the corner of the window.

“Sure.” Sam wondered if there would even be a later. If the cops were outside, he was safe now, right? He didn’t need to worry about the guns, the cops, or the fugitive with steel eyes who was currently pinning him down. With one hand. He knew it didn’t make sense. There was no way he couldn’t just push Luke off and get up, walk away. But he didn’t. Something kept him in place, his limbs loose, his gaze fixed on the man.

“Four cars. Is there a back exit?”

“No.”

Luke kept chewing his lip. Sam had to catch himself from stopping him.

“Well, shit.” He paused, contemplating something, and Sam quickly looked away. He wasn’t going to be caught staring.

Luke had obviously made a decision.

“Sam, I just need you to know: I’m sorry about this.”

“About what?” Sam was confused. Did he mean the whole situation, or was there something else about to be unloaded onto him?

“Look, you seem like a nice guy and all, but I got a whole lot riding on me not getting caught.” He reached into his waistband, and pulled out a handgun.

“Wait, what?” The fear was back and it had brought home company.

“I know that one wasn’t loaded, but trust me when I say this one is. You gotta have faith in me, Sam. I promise I don’t want to have to shoot you. You’re just gonna do what I tell you to, and we’ll all be okay.” He paused, and waited for Sam to react.

“I thought you said you weren’t a killer.”

“I’m not. _I’m not._ ” He repeated it as if it was important for Sam to know. “I can still shoot you. Trust me, I don’t want to. I wish there was another way but…” He gestured outside to the flashing red blue lights.

Sam took a steadying breath.

“Just do what I say, okay? It’s all going to be fine. I don’t want you dead, _they_ don’t want you dead. You’re just going to have to play hostage until we can get out of this.”

So it was _we_ now. “I… I guess.” Not that he apparently had much choice in the matter.

“Good man.” Luke clasped his shoulder. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Luke left him on the floor, and went to the counter. It occurred to Sam that this was the point of no return. If he went out that door with Luke, this was it. He could probably make a break for it whilst the other man was going through the register. He gulped. The memory of the gun was too real.

Then the moment had passed. Luke helped him to his feet.

“What about your jacket?” It was lying by the freezers, apparently forgotten.

“Eh, it’s not mine. Not like I need it anyway. I run pretty cold.” He took one look at Sam, standing in his blue petrol station polo shirt and jeans. “Here.” He handed it to Sam, who shrugged it on, trying not to breathe in Luke’s scent too deeply.

Not that he didn’t want to. The soft earthy smell clung to the fabric, with a touch of something warm and spicy. No. That would have been weird.

“And the bag?” It seemed strange that Sam would care about leaving stuff behind, it just came on instinct. You leave a place, you take your stuff.

“Not mine.” Luke kicked it out of the way

With that they were done.

“Okay, are you ready?” He stood behind Sam, and gestured towards the door.

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.” Sam zipped up the jacket halfway.

“Alright, hands on your head. I’m going to grab your upper arm and use it to guide you, okay?”

“Uh, sure.” This all seemed very polite. Sam put his hands on his head, and felt the gentle pressure of Luke’s grip.

“I’m also going to put my gun to your head. I’m not going to shoot you there. I just need it to be visible to the police.” He waited for a response.

“Okay.” Sam didn’t know what the normal protocol was in these situations. “Thanks, I guess.”

Luke laughed. “No problem. If they don’t think I’m serious, I’m going to shoot you in the foot. Only a graze on the side, you’ll still be able to walk. I just need to make sure they don’t think this is an empty threat.”

He sounded so matter of fact, as if the thought didn’t even bother him. Sam stalled. He didn’t think that would feel too good.

“It’ll be fine. Promise. I don’t break my word. Just remember to breathe, okay? Four, seven, eight. Like I showed you, remember?”

Sam nodded, and steadied his breathing.

“You’re doing great.” Luke raised the gun. “Okay let’s go.”

Luke kicked the door open, and pushed Sam through it first. He couldn’t tell where the shadows ended and the police line began. Immediately every weapon was focused on him. He froze.

“Breathe, Sam.” Lucifer’s whisper broke his stasis, and he drew in a shaky breath like before. Four. Seven. Eight. He focused on counting, shutting the outside world down into a small contained window. It couldn’t get to him.

“Alright, nobody fucking move, or I will shoot this bastard right here, right now. Understood?” Luke’s screamed the words at the officers, his voice raw and angry.

A crack shot through the air, and Sam was temporarily deafened. Only after the ringing subsided did he realise it was Luke firing a warning shot into the air.

One of the cops stepped forward with a shit eating grin. The gun was immediately shifted and focused on him, and Luke gripped Sam tighter.

“Come on now, Lucifer, we both know you don’t want to hurt this innocent man.”

Sam was suddenly deafened again, and when his hearing restored he could hear muted shouts. Dimly he realised some of them were coming from him.

“Sorry.” Luke muttered under his breath, then louder: “Fuck off Crowley. Take one more step and I will blow his goddamned brains all over the concrete.”

Sam wondered what had happened, as the officer frowned and took a step back. He remembered Luke’s words from earlier. _I don’t break my word._ Would he shoot Sam in the head like he was promising?

The officer glared as Luke slowly guided Sam towards the van at the far end of the forecourt. They stopped halfway, surrounded by the petrol pumps, and waited for the officers to clear a path.

“They won’t open fire here. They won’t risk it with all the fuel around us.”

Was Luke reassuring him? It seemed out of place. Fear thrummed through his veins, and he was shaking. Luke adjusted his grip on his arm, loosening it briefly, before resuming the concrete grip.

Once the way was clear they proceeded through towards the van. When they were a few paces away, Luke moved in front of Sam, keeping his body between the police and himself, but maintaining the grip and the gun.

From this close, Sam could feel Luke’s breath, soft against his neck. He didn’t realise Luke was shorter than him, not like that was hard, but still.

“Reach into my pocket.” There was nothing soft about his tone now. The steel and concrete was back.

“What?” Sam nearly choked.

“The keys.” Luke chuckled, a small indication of the gentle side he had displayed earlier. “They’re in my front pocket.”

Sam slid his hand in as quickly as possible, feeling awkward at such an intimate gesture. He found the keys, and pulled them out.

“Unlock the van.”

He pressed the button on the key fob, and the van’s light flashed, accompanied by a click.

“Open the door.”

Sam reached over Luke, uncomfortable at the proximity, and tugged the door open.

Luke released his grip on his arm, and slid in, keeping the gun pointed at Sam’s head. Sam took a few quick breaths.

“Get in.” Luke had slide over to the passenger side.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Sam. We’re not out of this yet. Get in. Please.”

Sam clambered into the vehicle, with none of the graceful movements Luke possessed. He pulled the door shut. The van had a distinctly outdoors smell, wet mud and grass, and in such close confines, each sound felt amplified. His ears still rang from the shots, and he could feel as much as hear Luke’s words.

“Drive.” Luke had ducked under the window, and kept the gun trained on him. “Take a left out of here and head north.”

Sam pulled slowly out of the parking space, and cruised past the squad cars. He locked eyes with the officer, Crowley, Luke had called him. He was barking orders into a radio. Then they were gone. Suddenly Luke sprung up, leant out of Sam’s window, and unloaded a series of shots behind them.

Wide eyed, Sam looked at Luke for an explanation.

“Don’t want them following us.” He pulled himself into the seat as they left the petrol station. “The squad cars! Jeez Sam, I told you, I’m no killer.”

He began rifling through the side doors, looking for something.

“Is there a map in your door?”

“What?” Sam was beginning to get tired of asking so many questions.

“A map. There must be one around here.”

“How do you not know what’s in your own van?” It seemed incredulous.

That grin again. “Take a guess.”

Sam should have known. “Not your van.”

“Bingo.” Luke triumphantly held up a tattered road map that looked about twenty years out of date. “Well, double bingo. Not my van either.”

“Is there anything in here that belongs to you?” He sighed, exasperated. What had he gotten into?

Luke paused, looking around. “I mean if it’s been reclaimed without permission, does it count?”

“No.”

Another beat. “I know. One thing.”

“What? Wait, before you answer, if it’s some corny crap like your freedom I’m crashing this van right now.”

Luke laughed. “No, nothing like that. It’s you. You’re my hostage. All mine.”

“I don’t think that counts.”

“Sure it does. Take a left here.” He pointed at a road they were almost past.

Sam swerved the van, barely making the turn. Luke began reloading the gun, before putting the safety on, and sliding it back into his waistband.

“So where are we heading?” Sam tried to fill the silence.

“Sorry, but no. Can’t risk you knowing.” His nonchalance was infuriating, as if this was a perfectly normal situation to him. For all Sam knew it might be.

“Well, when can I go?”

“I don’t know. When there’s enough road between me and the cops.”

“When will that be?”

Luke smiled apologetically. “I don’t know.”

“Are you at least going to tell me why the cops are after you?”

“Later.” He saw Sam’s expression and softened. “I promise.”

Sam hit the wheel in frustration. “Can you at least give me something to work with? Anything? ”

“Green.”

“What?” Sam snapped, impatient, ready to explode.

“My favourite colour. Green. The colour of forests. Pine trees. Wild grass caught in a storm. Crisp apples. Woodpeckers.”

“Oh.” The noise clung to his lips. The more Luke spoke, the more vulnerable he seemed. At least when he wasn’t waving guns around. It was unexpected, but made sense: Luke had an earthy vibe about him.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m not exactly wanting this either. I was just hoping for some quick cash, you know? In and out. This wasn’t really according to plan.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation. Pull over here. Please don’t run”

They stopped outside a multi-storey car park. Luke grabbed a bag from the back, and led the way inside.

Sam wondered what would happen if he did try to run. Would Luke really shoot him? What danger could he really pose? He barely knew the guy, didn’t know where he was going or where he was from. Surely he wasn’t needed around. But was it even safer having no use to Luke? Sure, he had his moments, but at the end of the day he was a criminal- there was no telling what he might do. All Sam had was his word, and what was that? The word of a criminal, that was really trustworthy. Not.

They went up three flights of stairs that uniquely stank of, well, public car parks, until Luke motioned to stay low and follow. Sam complied, there wasn’t much else he could do at this point. They slipped along the walls, staying out of sight of security cameras, and brightly lit areas. It was slow going, but eventually Luke found what he was looking for.

It was a battered old thing, sitting alone in the corner of the floor. Dean was the real petrol head, and all Sam could go by was basic appearances. It was a rusted red, maybe fifteen years old, and the most nondescript vehicle in the lot.

“These are good.” Luke broke the silence. “If you pop the lock just right, the alarm won’t even go off.” He demonstrated, pulling a slender rod out of the bag and within seconds opening the car door.

Sam didn’t know why Luke was showing him this. It wasn’t like he wanted to become a professional car thief. It was interesting, though, watching Luke work. He was obviously experienced, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He was a criminal after all, he probably knew everything about stealing cars.

Luke slid into the driver’s seat, and began fiddling with the dashboard. Sam kept watch over the parking lot, becoming the unofficial accomplice. He wondered if he would still count as innocent in this. Luke was the one actually stealing the car. And he had a gun. But Sam wasn’t being forced to help.

The engine croaked into life, and Luke patted the seat next to him.

“In you get. We got a bit of a drive to do, and you probably shouldn’t stand on that for too long.”

“Stand on…” Sam looked down. His foot was bleeding. It felt like it belonged to someone else. A neat hole bore through the tip of his shoe, and blood trickled out of the hole.

“Yeah, sorry, I think I got it a bit high. You should be fine, I’ll have a look when we get there.”

“You shot me.” Suddenly he felt the throbbing in his foot.

“Only your foot. Come on, it’s barely a scratch. You’ll live. I did say I would.”

“But… You shot me.” It seemed so violent an action for the Luke whose favourite colour was green, who only called his brother Mike to annoy him. He couldn’t figure out where that Luke ended, and this Luke began, the harder, concrete and steel Luke who shot him. In the foot.

“Yeah. I didn’t want to mention it until the adrenaline wore off. I’m surprised you made it this far.”

“Oh.” It made sense, from a logical point of view.

“Anyway, I got something that might cheer you up. Here.” He handed something over to Sam as he got in the car, banging his head on the low doorframe on the way in.

He held his sketchbook in his lap. The cover was slightly bent, but it was intact. He wished it didn’t cheer him up, so that he could be mad at Luke, but a small part of him was too relieved he still had his drawings. It was touching, in a “he-had-just-been-shot-in-the-foot-by-a-really-nice-guy” way.

“Thanks.” He meant it. “For, you know,” He gestured with one arm, “not being the worst.”

“I’m flattered.”

Sam lightly punched Luke’s arm. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.” Luke smiled. “So am I forgiven?”

“No. It still hurts like a bitch.”

“I guess I deserved that.”

“Yeah. You do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sam slipped in and out of consciousness for the majority of the journey. When road signs slipped into obscurity, and then slipped from memory itself he knew there was no way he could get out of this situation alone. He had no idea where they were, or how he would get back. The pain in his foot had swelled, until he managed to dig a half used pack of painkillers in the backseat. Now it had settled into an uncomfortable throb, which burned every time he jolted his foot. Which wasn’t that often: Luke was a cautious driver, at least once he was certain there was no tail.

When the sun began its lazy descent in the sky, Luke decided to call it a day, and they pulled off the road at a motel. He must have been pretty tired, driving through the night and the next morning, but Sam didn’t care to volunteer to drive. It was his own, somewhat petty way of silently punishing the other man for shooting him.

The motel was a dive. Perhaps once it had been a hub of activity, drawing in customers from their journeys to share a pint and a story, to take a break from the driving. Now, however, it was barely standing. Dust from the road tainted every surface, and the main building looked ready to fold in on itself. Luke parked the car in the shade of a wilted tree, and got out.

“Well, it’s better than the backseat.” Luke stared at each building in turn, silently appraising the accommodation. Despite it being November, in the daylight his eyes were nearly bleached of colour, and resembled a stony grey.

“Yeah.” Sam laughed. “Done a few of them before.”

“Really? You seem like the kind of guy who’s always had a roof.”

“Nah, my dad and I fought like hell when I was younger.” He didn’t want to go into specifics, it felt too personal, too soon.

“Yeah. I get that.” Luke glanced at him, not with sympathy, but with a sad calm. Suddenly, his face shifted, and the cocky grin was back. “How about we go get some beds? I don’t know how much was in that register, but I’m thinking platinum suit.”

His mood change was infectious. “Yeah, don’t forget the breakfast. Do you think they do champagne by the glass?”

It seemed wrong to be fantasising about celebrating; he _was_ the one who had been held up, but when Luke smiled it was contagious.

He held back to collect the bags, resisting the urge to pry. Curiosity killed the cat. And he still didn’t know if he even _wanted_ to know what was in the bags. Luke seemed like a well-meaning, earnest guy. He didn’t want to taint that image.

The other man returned shortly, twirling a key around his finger in triumph.

“If anyone asks, we’re brothers. I bagged a good deal on a twin room, and it’s one of the only rooms with TV.”

“I thought you said you’d never lie?” Sam regretted the question the moment it slipped out. He wasn’t usually this careless, but Luke brought out his impulsive side. He held his breath expecting the worst.

“Oh, Sam. I said I wouldn’t break my word. I wouldn’t lie to you. Big difference. Besides what could I say that wouldn’t end in her calling the police? ‘Yes, sorry, I need a room for me and my hostage. Does it have Wi-Fi?’ I don’t think that would work.” His tone was almost mocking towards the end, and Sam got the feeling he was being patronised.

“Sure. Okay. Brothers.” He didn’t want to fight with Luke. Other than the fact the man carried a loaded gun under his shirt, he had to keep reminding himself that Luke was a criminal, and a predator.

“Good.” Luke smiled, with just a little too much teeth. “I’m sorry. I’m just shattered. I need some sleep.” He gestured to a room. “After you. And I know I don’t need to remind you, but don’t run, okay?”

“Got it.”

The room was a small, dingy affair, with dirty windows, and exposed floorboards. At least the linen was clean. Luke called dibs on the first shower, and Sam wasn’t in the mood to argue. He slumped on a bed, and flicked through the television channels. It only had three channels, and Sam flicked through each one, waiting until he got bored before moving on. Cycling through the programs, (drama, talk show, cartoon) he wasted a good amount of time just mulling over the events of the last twenty four hours.

It hadn’t even been that long. Did Dean know? He must have noticed something was wrong. Sam always called at the end of his shift for a lift home. Maybe he’d assume Sam had gotten a lift with someone else. He could imagine Dean’s questions. _Who was it? Were they cute? Did you get their number?_ Ha. Fat chance. Getting a date at a petrol station was about as unlikely as… as getting robbed, and ending up with the attacker on a road trip? It was still a lot to process. Also he needed to figure out how to fix his foot. He hadn’t dared to look at it yet.

A change in the lighting from the TV drew his attention, and he glanced over to see what was happening. A news anchor was giving a report of something… he scrambled for the remote to turn up the volume, and when he looked back was startled to see an image of himself staring out at him.

“…Winchester has been missing for nearly twelve hours. He was taken hostage by an armed criminal, known to the police as Lucifer. Whether that is an alias, we are uncertain. This ‘Lucifer’ attempted to rob a petrol station, but was being tailed by the police, who were waiting to make a move. Unfortunately, Samuel Winchester was caught up in the criminal’s schemes, and it is unknown if he is alive. We go now to the scene.”

Sam muted the program. He felt sick. Dean was probably assuming the worst. He couldn’t let him go through that.

“Cute picture. Who’s the girl?”

He jumped. He didn’t know how long Luke had been standing there but when he turned around, his answer died in his mouth.

Luke was wearing only a towel around his waist, and his hair still dripped from the shower. It had been tousled, and Sam had an urge to run his hands through, getting the precise spikes that looked too perfect to be natural. It was only a few shades darker than the usual honey brown, but it succeeded in bringing out the dark intensity in his eyes.

 Not that his body wasn’t worth mentioning. Sam didn’t know where to look, suddenly it seemed everywhere his eyes went was inappropriate. A network of scars covered the otherwise flawless torso, lean and muscular, but with a slight softness too. The lines ran from shoulder to hips, ranging from slight tendrils exploring his body, to jagged angry bolts punctuating his form. Burns framed the image, slender fingers touching his shoulders, the backs of his arms, and as he turned to close the door, he saw they met in a large angry V on his spine.

He was delaying too long. He needed to speak. Words just slipped through his brain, and the only thing he could think was: _damn._

“She’s, uh, this girl I dated. Jess. We were like high school sweethearts, or something.”

“Were?” The question was light, and Sam was trying his hardest to meet Luke’s gaze.

“Yeah, she moved about a year ago. Australia. She dumped me, said it was for the best.”

“Was it?” The towel shifted.

“I guess. Neither of us could really visit, and it sort of died. She had to go her own way, and I had to go mine.”

“Fair enough.” Luke lay on the opposite bed, staring at the ceiling. “Well, the shower’s all yours. I may have used up all the hot water though.”

“Thanks for that.” He shot Luke a look. It felt like he was a kid again, fighting with Dean over bathroom times.

“Well if you’re so concerned, next time we could share.”

Sam nearly choked. “Um, yeah. Thanks. No. No thanks.” He pulled the door closed with a little more force than necessary.

“When you’ve finished, I’ll take a look at your foot.” Luke shouted through the door.

He didn’t reply.

Sam peeled off his shoe, and tried to take off the sock. The dried blood make it difficult, and each time he tugged, he could feel skin pull with it. _Shit._ He shed the rest of his clothes, and stood in the shower, trying to loosen the scabs with water. As Luke predicted, the water went cold after only five minutes.

He got out of the shower, shivering, and managed to pull off the sodden sock. A knock at the door interrupted his examination, and a hand slid in, offering a bundle of clothes.

“Hey, sorry, I don’t know if they’ll fit as they’re mine, but at least they’re clean. And if it makes you happy, I promise I didn’t steal them.”

Sam chuckled at that. It did almost make him feel better: that they were Luke’s clothes, and not some random stranger’s. He pulled them on: the shirt fit fine, if not being a style he would usually opt for. Predictably the trousers were a little short in the leg, but they were a soft, comfortable fit nonetheless. The smell was nice too: it was like being enveloped in a soft blanket of pine and cloves.

When he entered the room Luke was waiting, armed with a first aid kit.

“Alright, we better clean you up. I don’t know if it counts if it’s indirect, but I don’t plan on killing anyone anytime soon. Infections can be pretty unpleasant.” Luke handed him an antiseptic wipe to clean off the blood.

“Is that from experience?”

Luke tensed.

“Kind of.” He didn’t elaborate. “You’re pretty lucky, it only grazed the side.”

It was an obvious stab at changing the conversation, and Sam let it happen. If Luke didn’t want to talk, then nothing Sam did would change that.

“Oh yeah?” He still wanted to keep the conversation going, but had no idea how to continue.

“I’ll just patch it up for you. Make sure you keep it clean, okay?” It seemed obvious, but Luke looked exhausted, and Sam didn’t have the heart to point it out.

“Sure.”

Luke bandaged it with deft movements, and the moment he was done he stepped back, as if he no longer wanted to be in Sam’s space.

“I’m gonna sleep. Don’t be going anywhere.” Luke nearly collapsed on the bed, and Sam knew the rest of his questions would have to wait. It seemed each time he learnt something about the mysterious criminal, it only resulted in more mysteries.

When he was certain Luke was sleeping, Sam slipped outside, holding his shoes, and leaving the door unlocked. Luke looked peaceful in sleep, all the hard lines of his face were ironed out, leaving a serene expression on his face. Sam wondered if the other man dreamed of anything.

Outside, Sam was briefly blinded by the light, and after his eyes adjusted he scanned the car park for any signs of life. There was nothing. Weary, he sat on the doorstep watching birds fly overhead and wondered if this counted as going anywhere. He needed space to think, but Luke wasn’t the type to issue empty threats. Obviously. Suddenly he needed to move, to pace, to _do_ something. It wasn’t like Luke said he couldn’t stretch his legs. He just said not to go anywhere.

Screw it. Screw Luke, and his confusing attitudes. Screw everything. He was going for a walk. He would be back by the time the other man woke, and with luck he’d never know he was gone.

Picking a direction at random, he set off. The motel was literally in the middle of nowhere. Dry dirt stretched towards the horizon on one side, and on the other was the road. Grass pushed through cracks in the ground, and trees pressed their roots across whatever land they could claim. The air was cool, and Sam regretted not bringing the jacket. Despite that, the fresh air was nice, and he felt like he could finally breathe easy again.

He continued on for what could have been minutes or hours. It was only when he noticed how elongated the shadows had grown that he became aware of how late it had gotten. The night time wildlife had begun to stir, strange noises across the horizon, and now he was freezing. He headed back at a brisk pace, determined to be back in the warmth.

By the time he had returned, the sun had nearly set, and he was worried Luke had woken up. When he entered the parking lot, something unusual in the corner caught his eye. It was easy to see how he had missed it: it was behind a tree, tucked into the corner of the car park. An old, weathered pay phone with a flickering light and rusted paint had hidden away from prying eyes. He was surprised it was even working, now the switch to mobile phones had make pay phones all but obsolete. Considering he had left his phone at the petrol station, this could be the only chance he had to contact Dean. He nervously glanced at the room, wary, as if this was a test and Luke was waiting, watching for him to fail.

But Dean thought he was dead. He owed it to his older brother to call him and let him know he was alive. He could tell him not to go to the cops: Dean would understand. He trusted Dean completely.

Each second he waited was a second closer to getting busted. It was now or never.

He slunk over to the phone, feeling guilty. It was stupid, he was the hostage here. Hostages were supposed to try to escape.

At least the phone was out of view of the room. If Luke did wake up, he would have a few extra precious seconds to react.

He punched in the operator’s number, and asked to reverse the charges. When prompted, he punched out Dean’s mobile number from memory, and waited for the call to be accepted.

A double click. Dean picked up.

“Who the hell is this, and how did you get this number?” Dean sounded frustrated and tired.

“Dean. It’s me.” Sam kept his voice as low as possible.

“Sammy? What the hell? Where are you? Are you okay? Has that son of a bitch done anything to you?” The questions fired out, one after another, and Sam had to cut him off.

“Dean. Dean. I’m fine. I don’t know how long I’ve got, but I’m fine.” That was only a white lie. “I don’t know where I am, but I’m okay. I’m alive.” He knew he couldn’t talk for much longer, but he wanted to hear his brother’s voice one last time.

“Yeah, I got that. Is there anything, any clue as to where you are? Anything at all?”

“Dean, I-“He broke off. What could he even tell him? “I’m fine. I gotta go. I’m sorry.”

“Sammy don’t-“

Click. He hung up.

There was nothing more he could tell Dean without endangering his own life. That’s what he kept telling himself. Once Luke was happy he was safe, he’d let him go. Surely he would.

Sam crept back inside, and was relieved to see Luke still asleep. He had gotten away with it. His sketchbook lay unopened on the table, and Sam picked it up.

He suddenly felt uneasy, as if something had crawled under the floorboards and died, and only now could he begin to smell it. Something was definitely off. He just couldn’t figure out what. He tried going back to his sketches to see if he could distract his mind from the encompassing sense of wrongness, but the sour taste in his mouth remained. Well, there was nothing he could do now. He sat, listening to Luke’s breaths, and waited for the other man to wake up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this sounds a bit clunky in places, so I may edit in the future, but I just really wanted to post another chapter because I had the time. Hope it ain't too terrible.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'd like to continue, but I say that about everything so we'll see.  
> Comments/ criticism/ ego stroking all massively appreciated.  
> Peace.


End file.
